Obsession (26 page)

“If you were us, Mario, where would you look for him?”

“Hmm,” said Fortuno. “I’d say
Cherchez la femme
. That’s French for ‘women are slicker than men.’ In this case,
la mamacita
.”

“Multilingual,” said Milo.

“Women love adroitness with language, Lieutenant. Not that such matters would concern
you
. Wesley, I do believe it’s time for my supper. Dr. Delaware, when you see Philip, tell him Daddy loves him.”

We sat in the hotel bar and drank Cokes.

Milo said, “A
quiet
boy. Fortuno’s worried his kid’s gay.”

Petra said, “That’s what he meant?”

His reply was half a smile.

She said, “Thanks for agreeing to see the kid, Alex.”

“Santa Barbara’s nice this time of year.”

“Mr. Insider didn’t end up telling us much other than De Paine’s mommy was a wild girl who loves real estate. Which ain’t exactly a rare L.A. bird. What’s Ms. Whitbread like?”

Milo said, “Friendly, flirtatious, well put together.”

I said, “Her son sells dirty pictures. She made them.”

“So we’re in Freud-World.”

“De Paine came by to visit when we were there, so there’s still some kind of relationship. Fortuno’s right: Keep an eye on her and she might lead you to him.”

“Day we met her, De Paine was right in front of us,” said Milo, rubbing his face.

Petra put her glass down. “Everything we hear about this guy turns up nasty. But he’s not a formal suspect on Jordan so no way I can get a tap on Mommy’s line—where’s Fortuno when we need him. In terms of surveillance, Fourth Street’s quiet and respectable and relatively low-rise. Not the ideal situation for a stakeout. Any ideas?”

Milo said, “After dark it would be easier.”

“True…okay, I’ll talk to Raul.”

I said, “Fortuno confirmed that Mary got into real estate with help from rich boyfriends. We know Myron Bedard sold her four buildings, including the two duplexes on Fourth. That confirms our guess about her being his mistress. It also strengthens our theory about De Paine meeting Lester Jordan through the Bedards. I’m convinced that whatever haunted Patty took place during the months she lived on Fourth.”

Milo said, “Myron takes Mary and her kid along when he checks out his tenants on Cherokee. The kid just happens to run into Jordan and sees an opportunity?”

“Whatever the case,” said Petra, “I’ve had no luck finding Myron Bedard. Or anyone else, for that matter. Why do I have this naggy little feeling that Fortuno played us?”

I said, “He played
me
to get therapy for his son. Maybe he really cares about the boy but mostly he needed to feel in control. What I find interesting is that he danced around every topic you brought up
except
Mary Whitbread.”

“You’re right, no problem laying out the details, there. Including how he did her. What was that, another power play?”

“He resents her. Or at the very least, he doesn’t care what happens to her, or her son. If he knew more, he’d have told us.”

“Dirty pictures for dope,” said Petra. Thin music issued from her purse and she fished out a phone playing the first eight notes of “Time After Time.” “Connor. Hey, Raul, what’s…you’re kidding. Give me the address. Be there in thirty to forty.”

She clicked off and stood. “Moses Grant has surfaced.”

“Excellent,” said Milo.

“Not really.”

The police own the crime scene but the coroner owns the body.

The three of us stood back from the scene, white-lit by night floods, as a coroner’s investigator named Sally Johannon gloved up and labored to turn Moses Grant’s massive corpse face-up. Two Central Division detectives named David Saunders and Kevin Bouleau stood nearby. Both were black, in their early thirties, dressed in well-cut dark suits.

A few feet away, Raul Biro, in a herringbone sport coat and gray slacks, scanned the crime scene.

For the third time, Johannon’s attempt to get a frontal view failed.

Grant had been dumped near the 110 North, just above Chinatown, cars whizzing by a few feet away. The estimate was one or two days of decomposition and bloat. Despite the wide-open spot, the smell was unmistakable and it adhered to my sinuses, the way it always does.

Sally Johannon winced. “There goes my sacroiliac.” She motioned for help. The two crypt drivers who’d come with the white van gloved up and the three of them completed the flip.

Grant’s sage-green velour tracksuit blended with the shrubbery and the eucalyptus saplings. A bush-clearing crew of County Jail trustees had found him. They were gone, now, ushered back to the comfort of incarceration. The ramp was blocked by a squad car but the freeway remained open and the auto roar was constant.

“One here,” said Johannon, pointing to a small, neat wound in Grant’s forehead. Her hands moved down the swell of Grant’s torso. “Two, three—four, five—and one here.” Indicating a rip in the velour dead center of Grant’s groin. “Someone didn’t like this poor guy.”

Petra said, “Any defense wounds?”

Johannon checked. “Nope, nothing.”

Milo said, “The shooter was facing him when he let go.”

David Saunders said, “Any shooter would probably be shorter than Grant. The crotch shot or one of the abdominals could’ve been the opener. Grant went down and the shooter kept pumping.”

“A crotch shot makes me wonder about a grudge,” said Kevin Bouleau. “Was he fooling with someone’s marital situation?”

Petra said, “Not that we know.”

“You’ve been looking for him for a while?”

“There’s a whole long story.”

“Can’t wait,” said Bouleau.

Sally Johannon said, “Let me double-check his legs…nope, that appears to be it, folks. From the size of the entry, I’d guess a .22, certainly not much bigger. No serious blood, so this wasn’t the kill-spot. You’re not going to find casings unless one lodged somewhere on his person and fell out.”

Kneeling lower, she ran her eyes down the tracksuit. “Any pockets on this thing…ah yes, here we go.”

Reaching inside the zip jacket, she turned a pocket inside out. “No I.D., sorry, people.”

Raul Biro said, “We know who he is.”

“Thanks to you,” said Petra. “Good work.”

Biro allowed himself a split-second smile. He’d been sitting at his desk working the phones while simultaneously monitoring incoming homicide calls on the scanner. Hearing about a downtown dump, he’d perked at the victim’s race and size, gotten to the scene early, and helped secure it.

“Praise the Lord,” said Saunders. “And His faithful servant, Detective Biro.”

Everyone knew what he meant. Without victim identification, days could be lost.

Biro said, “What do you want me to do now?”

Petra said, “Up to these guys.”

Saunders said, “Do you know if Mr. Grant has any local family?”

“We traced his residence a year back and he was living alone in the Valley. He was of interest to us as a K.A. of our suspect but nothing indicates he was a bad guy in his own right.”

“Someone sure thought he was.”

Johannon got to her feet. “Creak, creak, I’m getting too old for this.”

I put her at thirty-five.

Fetching her camera, she circled the body, taking small steps, snapping lots of shots. “Okay, he’s all yours. Where are your techies?”

Saunders said, “On the way.”

Kevin Bouleau said, “We’re ready to hear that story, Petra.”

One of the crypt drivers said, “Any idea when we can get going?”

Petra summed up what she knew about Grant. Saunders and Bouleau listened until she was through, then Saunders said, “This guy Fisk is the obvious choice, seeing as he’s already killed someone because of something the vic knew. Grant hung with these guys, probably also came to know too much. The only thing against that is Fisk strangled your vic.”

Petra said, “That went down in an apartment building full of people, so noise could’ve been a factor. And Grant was even bigger than Bowland, maybe too big to strangle.”

“So maybe he got shot somewhere secluded. No idea at all where he was living?”

“De Paine and Fisk were rooming together in the Hollywood Hills. No one saw Grant in the house, but it’s possible he was there. But even if he was, that was months ago.”

“Club dudes,” said Bouleau. “There’s lots of club activity on our turf. Abandoned buildings east of the Civic Center, it’s basically industrial, dead at night. Club dudes break in, bootleg electricity, run raves, peddle dope, take the money and run. Once the party’s over, it’s nice and quiet.”

Saunders said, “There’re a few places we can check out, see if any copious body fluids show up.”

Bouleau said, “That place on Santa Fe, for starts.”

Saunders nodded. “Used to be a textile warehouse, amazing what you find in these places.”

Petra said, “The one place the three of them were spotted together was the Rattlesnake.”

“That one’s long gone,” said Saunders. “Looks like we’re going to be up nights, Kev. You’re doing that, anyway, but my social life’s going to
die
.”

“You don’t deserve one,” said Bouleau. “Be like the rest of us and suffer.”

Saunders grinned. “Kev’s wife just had a baby.”

Milo said, “Congrats.”

Petra said, “That’s great, Kev. Boy or girl?”

Kevin Bouleau said, “Girl, Trina Louella. Best-looking baby in the known universe but she’s not into sleep.”

“If she can do thirty-six straight she can follow in her daddy’s footsteps.”

“Not going to happen,” said Bouleau. “Trina’s going to be a doctor.”

The banter died and the Central detectives began walking around the dump site, looking for casings that wouldn’t materialize. The LAPD Crime Scene van arrived and two techs got out carrying black cases.

As they began working, Petra corralled Raul Biro, asked him to watch Mary Whitbread’s duplex.

He said, “I can do that.”

“Are you free tonight?”

“I can be.”

She turned to us. “All this bloodshed just to squelch information? Whatever memory Patty resuscitated must’ve been major-league. I’m away from the idea that it was anything less than murder. So maybe Isaac didn’t pull anything up because it’s unreported, like you said. Which is not hopeful.”

She watched the techs crouch near the body. “Nothing for us to do here.”

We returned to our cars.

I said, “I know .22s are common but you might want to check the slugs in Grant against those taken from Leland Armbruster.”

Milo said, “De Paine shot Armbruster thirteen years ago and held on to his piece?”

“Thirteen years ago, De Paine was fifteen. If Armbruster was his first, the gun could be psychologically significant.”

“Sentimental value.”

Petra said, “Plus, he got away with it, so why ditch a lucky weapon? I agree, it’s worth a try. Grant’s autopsy won’t be prioritized because six bullet holes is no whodunit. But let me go back to talk to Saunders and Bouleau and see if they can push a little. Once the slugs are fished out, I’ll coordinate the ballistics. Raul, stick with me and let’s talk about tonight. See you later, guys.”

I got onto the 110 and sped south.

Milo said, “You can slow down now.”

I said, “I’m heading over to Tanya’s. Two people are dead in order to keep a secret. She’s outside the loop but De Paine and Fisk have no way of knowing that.”

“Did you talk to her about finding temporary lodgings?”

“Not yet.”

“Timing wasn’t right?”

“I should’ve made it right. Do me a favor and call her now.”

He tried her landline and her cell. Voice mail on both. “She’s probably studying.”

“Hope so.”

“One thing in her favor, Alex: With De Paine and Fisk doing the Osama bit, maybe they won’t risk coming out in the open.”

“They weren’t too scared to shoot Grant. Want me to drop you at your car or go straight to her place?”

“Straight’s always best,” he said. “So to speak.”

No van in Tanya’s driveway. Lights ambered the living room drapes. The outdoor spots seemed to shine brighter and I said so.

Milo said, “She probably upped the wattage. Good girl, she’s paying attention. She’s likely still on campus, cramming for a test or something. But let me check the premises to make you feel better.”

As he started to get out, a car across the street pulled away and drove toward Pico.

White Mercedes convertible. Classic model, conspicuous in this middle-class neighborhood.

I said, “Get back in.”

Milo said, “What—”

“That Benz heading north. We’ve seen it before.”

The convertible made a rolling stop and continued east on Pico without signaling. Moderate traffic made the tail easy. At La Cienega, the Mercedes hooked a left, picked up speed, sailed past La Cienega Park and the old Restaurant Row before pausing for a light at San Vicente. Then on to Third Street and a right turn.

Short ride past newer cafés and masses of valet-parked vehicles, then south on Orlando.

Milo said, “Hang at the corner.”

We watched the convertible cover a few blocks then turn left onto Fourth Street. Again, no signal.

“At the least I can get him for traffic violations. Switch off your lights and move up a bit.”

I pulled over just short of Orlando and Fourth and we watched as the Mercedes cruised up the block and paused in front of Mary Whitbread’s duplex.

Sitting there, in the middle of the street. A full minute passed before the brake lights went off.

Milo said, “He’s heading back to San Vicente, go, Alex.”

The Benz sped east on Beverly. I stayed three car lengths behind, followed the sleek white chassis through the Fairfax district and into Hancock Park.

When the Benz turned onto Hudson Avenue, Milo had me hang back again. “Let’s make sure any surprises are the ones we dish out.”

The Benz turned exactly where we knew it would.

I raced onto Hudson, pulled to the east side of the street, positioned the Seville the wrong way, directly in front of the Bedard mansion.